


You Save Me From Myself

by MaraMcGregor



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Background Poly, Canon-Typical Violence, Fake Marriage, M/M, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-17
Updated: 2015-01-17
Packaged: 2018-03-05 12:10:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3119693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaraMcGregor/pseuds/MaraMcGregor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter and Chris run into something new in the woods. Unfortunately, they now have to convince everyone they are married to save themselves from certain death. They may just save each other more than they originally planned.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Save Me From Myself

**Author's Note:**

  * For [GoddessofBirth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoddessofBirth/gifts).



> Disclaimer: I do not own these characters. They are the property of Jeff Davis and MTV.
> 
> Written for the Petopher Secret Santa Exchange.

Peter nearly jumped out of his skin when he felt a wet hand grasp his shoulder. He spun quickly and took a large step backwards. Standing just on the edge of the bank of the creek was a woman. At least, he thought it had been a woman at one point. Her hair was gray and matted, clinging in clumps to her face, or what was left of it. Her skin was rotting and peeling away from her skull. Ulcers erupted from her face, leaving seeping wounds that leaked blood and fluid down her dripping chin. Her eyebrows were large and stood out from her face. He wasn’t sure if they were supposed to be prominent, or if they were disconnecting from her skull like the rest of her water-laden flesh.

“Peadar! I’ve found you at last.”

Peter glanced around, scanning for the rest of the Pack. He wasn’t sure who Peadar was, but if he was anything like the person in front of him, he didn’t really want to stick around and find out.

“Peadar, come back to me. I know the Nemeton drew you here, but you belong with me under the waves beneath Ceann na Cailighe. I’ve looked for you for centuries. I thought I found you in Clare years ago, but I was mistaken. It’s time to come home.”

He took another step back, blue eyes wide. “Ummm, look lady, I’m not this Peadar person. I was born in 1973, in California.”

Dead eyes stared blankly at him. Her head tilted slightly, creaking her neck and causing rivulets to run out of her ear and drip onto her shoulder.

“You know, America. The Colonies? Anything ringing a bell?”

The decaying woman reached a hand out to him and started to approach in a strange shuffle-walk.

Peter scrambled backwards again and raised his hands up, trying to ward her off. He had already decided to burn his shirt. He was never wearing the contaminated V-neck again. But, he wasn’t interested in her deciding to grab him and drag him into the water and wherever this Ceann na Cailighe was, either. He heard a rustle in the leaves behind him and jerked his head to see who had made the noise. He had never been so relieved to see Chris Argent appear out of the darkness, crossbow in hand.

“See! I can’t be your lost husband, love, whatever! I’m already married.”

“Married? You would betray me, my love?”

“No no no. I would never betray you. I’m sure this Peadar wouldn’t either. But, I’m happily married. To a man.” Peter lunged backwards and grabbed Chris by the forearm, yanking him to stand next to him. “This man.”

The woman dropped her hands back to her sides and gazed blankly at the two men. “If you are truly bonded, I shall leave you in peace. I would not destroy true love. However, if I find that you have deliberately deceived me, I shall take my Peadar and kill the interloper that dares to claim what is mine.”

Peter and Chris watched numbly as the decaying remains of the woman trudged back to the creek and sank beneath the surface. Murky bubbles rose and frothed for a moment before the water cleared and all traces of her were gone.

Peter dropped Chris’ arm as if it had burned him. The hunter shuffled away from the werewolf and glared. “Really? That’s all you could come up with? You, the master manipulator?”

“Shhh! Are you insane?! Let’s talk about this somewhere more private.”

“Fine. But we’re going to my place, where I have enough wolfsbane to kill you if this is as bad as it seems.”

Peter threw his hands in the air and stomped off in the general direction of his car. Chris took a moment longer to scan the area before turning and following Peter out of the woods.

Chris had parked his SUV next to Peter’s Jaguar. He stored his crossbow in the trunk and slid in to the driver’s seat. Glancing out the window, he watched Peter turn his car on. The werewolf looked over at Chris and revved his engine. He rolled his eyes at the ridiculous display and put his car in gear, leading the way to his apartment.

Allison’s car was gone and for that, he was grateful. He had no idea if she was with Scott, Lydia or Isaac and at this point, he couldn’t care less. He waited for Peter to get out of his car and followed him into the building.

Peter lounged on his couch, the picture of insolence. He had to close his eyes and swallow a couple of times before sitting in the chair opposite of the werewolf to prevent from starting the conversation with yelling. “Do you have any idea what that thing might have been?”

The werewolf frowned. He leaned forward and pressed his fingertips to his mouth. “No.”

Chris ran a hand through his hair. “I’ll pull up our bestiary, but I didn’t recognize her either.”

Several pots of coffee later, the sun was peaking over the horizon and they were no closer to figuring out what they may have encountered in the woods. Glaring angrily at the discarded books lying on the floor, Peter mumbled to himself.

“What was that?” Chris asked.

“Hm?”

“What were you saying?”

“Nothing. Just going over what she had said again.”

“Kidnapping and death threats. Lots of water references too.”

“No. It’s the place she mentioned just before you showed up. It sounded … off.”

“Off?”

Peter grunted and waved a hand through the air. “Not English. I didn’t recognize the name. It sounded Welsh or Celtic.”

He dumped several books on the floor before pulling one out of the mess and opening it. “Shit.”

“What now?”

“I’m not going to be able to figure this out.”

“Why?”

“Nothing is spelled like it sounds. For all I know it could be spelled with W’s and Y’s for vowels.”

Chris stared at Peter as he angrily flipped through the pages. “Deaton’s a Druid.”

Peter glanced up from the book that he was gripping. “Yes. And?”

The hunter wanted to beat the werewolf with the Encyclopedia of Roman Deities, Myths and Legends – all 1200 pages of it. “Druids are generally Celtic in origin. He should have some idea what in the Hell she said and what it means.”

“Great.” Peter dumped the book in his lap back to the floor and stood up, stretching his back and neck as he did so. Halfway to the door, he looked back over his shoulder at the irritated hunter. “You coming?”

Chris growled, deep in his throat. Just being in Peter’s presence was a test of his patience and abilities to not kill a werewolf. He followed Peter out of the apartment and back to their separate cars.

The fifteen minute drive to the veterinary clinic was blissful and too short for Chris. He debated the benefits of going back to the creek and talking with the woman and seeing if she would take Peter off his hands. But, he wasn’t sure how she would perceive his role in the whole mess. He could get away free and clear and never mention what happened to the psychopathic wolf or she could make good on her threats and kill him anyway. Reluctantly, he got out of his car and entered the clinic several minutes after Peter.

A small smirk played over his lips when he saw Peter hadn’t made it very far into the clinic. Deaton stood behind the counter with the small, swinging mountain ash door firmly closed. Peter was becoming more and more disgruntled at Deaton’s indifferent attitude.

The vet turned away from the upset werewolf, “Hello, Chris.”

Chris nodded his head and silently came to stand in the center of the waiting room, well outside touching distance of Peter. “What do you think?”

“From what Peter has been saying, I’d say it’s possibly a lost spirit. She certainly isn’t from here. So something she is anchored to had to have been brought here and left behind.”

Peter glared at Deaton. The man was completely unresponsive to anything he had to say, but was happy to share information with the hunter. He was tired and irritable already, but the blatant favoritism stung.

“And this place, Peter mentioned?”

“Ah, yes. I believe I know of it. It’s a rather impressive geological feature in Ireland. It is sometimes called Hag’s Head.”

Deaton bent down and pulled out several photos of cliff faces and laid them on the counter. “There is a legend about a woman who fell to her death pursuing a young man. She supposedly appears on the odd occasion. The last sighting of her was in 1939. What did you say she called you?”

“Peadar.”

Nodding to himself, Deaton brought up a large, hand bound book and set it next to the photos. “Peadar roughly translates to Peter.”

A brief whimper escaped from Peter. Quickly, he brought himself back under control and glanced at the other two men to see if they had noticed his slip. Fortunately, they were both staring at a map of Ireland and completely ignoring him for the time being. He longed to say something witty, but he had nothing left in his repertoire. He had been up for 32 hours, accosted by the decaying female crypt keeper, and shut in with a hunter all night. The only plus side to his extremely long day, so far, was that at least Chris was a very attractive man and even more attractive when angry.

Deaton looked up from one of his many reference books and examined Peter. “I believe the woman you saw was Bronach.”

The silence stretched as Peter stared back at the vet, waiting for him to expand. His patience gave out. Violently, he threw his arms open, hands splayed out, “Well? Are you going to enlighten the class? Is she staying around? Can she follow through on her threat of taking me to some underwater tomb?”

Chris stood up and flatly stared at Peter, “I’m more worried about if she will actually kill me for usurping her lover.”

Deaton sighed and placed his hands on either side of an open book. “I don’t have any record of her actually taking someone and killing them. But, she jumped off a cliff to be with her lost lover. I don’t think she’s going to vanish so easily.”

Chris closed his eyes and barely held in a groan. “How long until she goes away?”

Deaton hemmed and glanced back down at his books. “I’m not sure. The fastest way to send her home would be to find whatever is anchoring her here and ship it back to Ireland.”

Peter ground his teeth together in frustration, “And what, pray tell, would a rotting corpse be attached to?”

The vet glanced at Chris, eyes full of pity, “Something taken from the cliff. So, probably a rock or stone that someone chipped off as a souvenir.”

Peter brought his hands up to his face and rubbed at his temples, migraine already building behind his eyes. “We need to find a specific rock somewhere in the forest that is filled with rocks and stones? That’s impossible!”

Deaton gave a small, wavering smile, “Considering her activity and appearance, I would say that it’s located somewhere in the stream.”

The werewolf threw his hands over his head. “Right! Because that’s so much better! How will we even know if we have the right one? Last I knew, none of us were geologists!”

“A word to the wise, gentlemen. The fewer who know about this the better. If you can convince the rest of the Pack that you are a couple, Bronach will likely believe it too.”

Chris rubbed the back of his neck, battling off a pending muscle cramp from bending over books all night. “But, that won’t solve the problem long term. We can’t pretend forever. And if we slip up at any point in the future and she’s still in Beacon Hills, we don’t know what her response will be.”

“Correct. She will remain in the woods until you find her anchor.” Deaton glanced back over at the hunter. Chris’ shoulders sagged and his head was tilted forward, exhaustion etched into every inch of his profile. “Will you be able to lie to the Pack?”

Chris closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Yes. Gerard ensured that Kate and I could keep our heartbeats level enough to fool a werewolf, even in the worst situations.”

“Why doesn’t that surprise me,” Peter grumbled to himself. Louder, he addressed Chris, “Well, are we going home?”

“You’re sleeping on the couch.”

“But, it’s from Sears!”

“Maybe you should have thought of that before you declared yourself my husband!”

* * *

Chris stumbled into the kitchen in his boxers.  He squinted at the clock on the coffee maker. Something felt off. His brain was still foggy from sleep and the numbers blinking back at him seemed to defy all logic. He wanted to blame it on the bizarre nightmare he had about having to pretend to be Peter Hale’s husband, but he could feel the gap in his logic. He just couldn’t find the missing piece. A groan came from the sofa, making him spin around and fumble for his nonexistent gun. His other hand reached out and wrapped around the handle of a large kitchen knife.

“Why did you have to shop at Sears! This is the worst couch I’ve ever had the displeasure of sleeping on. I should have stolen your spare comforter and slept on the floor.”

Chris’ eyes widened. “Please tell me I’m still asleep.”

Blue eyes peeked around the back of the couch and stared directly at his chest. The lingering look made Chris feel oddly uncomfortable. Realizing that he was clad in nothing but his boxers, he wrapped his arms around his chest, knife sticking straight up from the crook of his elbow.

“Well, this might not turn out to be so bad if I get to wake up to that sight every morning.”

Chris ran his thumb along the back of the blade, debating the effort it would take to reupholster the couch versus the enjoyment of shutting Peter up – however briefly. He set the knife back down on the counter before he could change his mind and silently stalked back to his bedroom. Gazing out the window, it finally clicked why the clock on the coffee maker was off. They had gotten back to his apartment well after 9am and it was now settling in to dusk. He scrubbed his hands over his face and turned to his closet, grabbing the first shirt he touched and pulling his jeans back on.  

Stepping back out into the living room, he let out a squawk of horror and slapped both hands over his eyes, covering them tightly. “Holy shit! Put some pants on at least!”

Peter chuckled. “Oh Christopher, it’s only fair. I got such a delightful view earlier. I thought I’d share.”

“Put some clothes on. We need to talk to Lydia.”

Chris waited until he heard the zipper going up before uncovering his eyes. “Are you coming with me or are you going to make a nuisance of yourself somewhere else?”

“As much as I would love to make you squirm in front of Lydia, I don’t think we can risk failing in our ruse. No, I’m going to drop by the local community college and see if they have any professors that might be persuaded into helping.”

“No maiming, killing or otherwise threatening some innocent bystander.”

Peter rolled his eyes. “Yes, _dear_.”

* * *

Chris stood on Lydia’s doorstep. He shuffled awkwardly, internally chiding himself for not just calling and asking for her help. He was content to blame Peter entirely for his lack of foresight. There were no other cars in the driveway, crossing his fingers that she was home alone, he rang the doorbell.

The seconds ticked by interminably before the young redhead answered the door. “Mr. Argent.”

“Lydia. I was wondering if you could help with a problem I – we – stumbled across in the woods last night.”

Lydia tilted her head and bunched her eyebrows together. “Isn’t Deaton the better go to person for this?”

Chris nodded. “We already went to him. He gave us a lot of information, but we are stuck on the solution.”

She pushed the door completely open and stood aside. “Come on in. My parents are gone for the weekend. Some kind of beach retreat.”

Chris sighed in relief. He already felt awkward enough without having to worry about explaining his presence to concerned parents.

Lydia escorted him into the kitchen and asked, “Is there anything you’d like to drink?”

“No. I’m fine.”

One delicate eyebrow lifted in disbelief. “You don’t look fine. You look pale.”

Chris snorted. “I don’t even know where to begin.” He collapsed into a chair and placed his elbows on the round kitchen table. Leaning forward, he rested his chin in his hands and rubbed at his eyes.

A small hum left Lydia’s lips. Calmly, she slid a teapot over a burner on the stove and pulled down two mugs from the cabinet. Glancing back at the confused man, she selected two bags of chamomile tea. She let the silence drag on, hoping the time would allow Chris to put his thoughts together. The teapot whistled and Lydia quickly turned the burner off and poured the hot water over the bags and into the mugs. Lydia set a cup down in front of Chris and slid into the seat opposite his.

Chris wrapped a hand around the mug and looked at the young red head across from him. “And this is?”

“Chamomile. It helps with nerves and anxiety.”

Chuckling to himself, Chris took a sip and closed his eyes. “We found the source of those ghost reports yesterday. According to Deaton, her name is Bronach. She’s from Ireland and ended up going over a cliff in search of her lover. From what she said, I take it that his name was Peadar. She mistook Peter for him and tried to take him back with her.”

Lydia set her tea down and scrunched her nose. “I don’t see how that’s a bad thing. He’d be out of our hair, at least.”

Breathing deeply, Chris prepared himself to lie. He had not discussed their cover story with Peter, but he figured he could make it up as he went. Peter would be stuck with whatever he came up with. The small act of vengeance helped settle his nerves. “That would be problematic considering he’s married. To me.”

Lydia reeled backwards. “What?!”

* * *

“Let me get this straight. You told Lydia that we got married in Vegas? At a Drive-Thru?! Are you insane! I would never agree to something so … so … so tacky!” Peter stalked around the coffee table, incoherently mumbling and throwing his hands up in the air sporadically.

Chris grinned. “I took the liberty of asking a contact for a favor. He photoshopped us in to a couple of stock photos. It’s a small wedding album, but it’s ours.”

Peter paused, eyes widened in horror. An indignant squeal erupted from his throat. His gaze settled, jaw grinding, he tersely spoke, “Burn it.”

“Oh no. If we are going to continue this ruse, there’s no way the Pack will believe it without photographic evidence. That’s especially true for Allison,” Chris gleefully explained. He didn’t know what it was about this form of torture, but it was quickly becoming his favorite.

Peter rubbed his hands over his face. Through his fingers he asked, “What else did you tell Lydia?”  
  
“Don’t worry. I said that we were looking for a rare collection of books and ran into a succubus at the Drive-Thru Chapel. Unfortunately, in our undercover work we ended up getting married, mistakenly thinking we could get it annulled quickly. However, there was a problem with the paperwork and it left us in the sticky situation of needing a divorce instead. And by California law, everything we own belongs to both of us. So, since you don’t want to split your millions and we didn’t have a prenup, it became complicated. In the intervening months, we fell in love.” Chris batted his eyes at Peter, thoroughly enjoying his petty vengeance.

Peter groaned. Sliding his hands into his hair, he gripped at the strands, fighting off his urge to break something.

“I told Lydia not to tell Allison, that we would do it together. I went ahead and invited the Pack here to get the announcement out of the way.”

“I should have let the watery bitch take me down with her. It can’t be worse than this. When are they getting here?”

Chris checked his watch. “In about 30 minutes.”

The Pack arrived in clumps of twos and threes to Chris’ apartment. Allison, Lydia and Isaac were the first to get there. The three gazed at Peter in suspicion. Peter attempted a smile at Allison, hoping to reduce the odds of her shooting him with the small crossbow she kept stored in her purse. Unfortunately, it only caused both Isaac and Lydia to move in closer to her and sit her between them on the couch. Feigning insult, Peter turned away from them and stalked into the kitchen to prepare tea for everyone. He normally preferred coffee, but this was definitely more of a tea situation.

It wasn’t long until Scott and Stiles showed up, quickly followed by Derek, Malia, the Sheriff and Melissa. Peter began to smirk in Melissa’s direction when an irritated cough caught his attention.

“Terribly sorry, Christopher. You know who my heart belongs to.”

Chris frowned, pursing his lips tightly together. Taking a deep breath, he put his game face back on. “Let me help you carry these over.”

Chris followed Peter back out to the living room with a tray of cups and fixings for the tea. The Pack was settled on the furniture and sprawled on the floor when the seats ran out. Gently, he set his tray next to Peter’s and with a hesitant movement, reached out and grasped Peter’s hand.

Lydia’s eyes trailed to their joined hands and back to their faces, attempting to find any reason to suspect that they were lying. Why they would lie about something so improbable and atrocious, she couldn’t imagine. Chris turned towards her and gave her a brief, but tight, smile.

Chris inhaled deeply through his nose to steady his nerves and glanced again at the people seated around the living room. By this point, they had all caught on to the joined hands and were clearly itching to know what was going on.

The Sheriff spoke before Chris could begin to explain. “Oh God, what now? Is body swapping a thing? Did someone possess Peter or Peter possess someone else and we have to hunt his ass down? Tell me this isn’t some evil thing that’s going to take out my police department again. No one is willing to apply for positions anymore.”

Peter plastered a smile on his face, attempting genuine, but falling far short. “No, no. Nothing so terrible. In fact, these situations usually call for celebration.”

Chris squeezed Peter’s hand tightly beneath his own. He knew it wouldn’t actually achieve anything, but it made him feel better to injure the werewolf in some small way.

“Dad -” Allison trailed off, not liking the implications of what Peter was suggesting.

“Sweetheart, do you remember a couple of months ago when I went to Vegas on business?”

Allison looped her fingers through Isaac’s and nodded.

“Peter came with me because we were looking for information and several rare books. His knowledge of the obscure supernatural rivals anything found in the Bestiary. While we were there, we had a run in with a succubus. Several, very strange, events led to us posing undercover and getting married where the succubus was working and preying on newlyweds. Everything all worked out in the end. We got what we were looking for and everything seemed in place. But, there was a problem with the annulment.”

Chris paused, trying to gauge her reaction. The others were in various states of shock, horror or confusion. Allison had gone still.

Clearing his throat, he continued, “We then planned to get a divorce, but it was a Vegas wedding and we didn’t see any need to have a prenuptial agreement drawn up when we intended to get it all cleared up when we got home. As you know, the Hales are very wealthy and if we got divorced, I would get half of everything.”

Derek startled. “Everything?”

Peter smirked back at his nephew. “Well, everything that’s in my name. So, half of the contents of the vault and about 58 million dollars. Theoretically, we would have to liquidate all our other assets, including our cars, and split the money. And I’m just not giving up my Jag for anything.”

Chris swiveled to look at Peter. “The Jag is the problem? Not the extremely rare, one of a kind artifacts in the vault being in the hands of a hunter?”

Peter faced Chris and darted in, pecking his lips and stunning Chris into silence. “At least you can be trusted with treating the artifacts correctly and not using them against the Pack. The Jaguar would have to be bought back and likely at a mark up. That’s no way to maintain wealth.”

Chris spluttered, trying to get his mind to reboot and not plunge the dagger he kept up his sleeve into Peter’s chest.

Peter’s eyes crinkled and his smile grew devious. “As you can imagine, we had several intense arguments that remained civil only for the presence of lawyers.” Staring straight into Chris’ eyes Peter made his next declaration, “Naturally, the fighting turned to fucking and some things just aren’t shared lightly. We decided to stay married.”

Peter reveled in the sounds of the Pack spluttering, protests cut off with incoherent babbling. He was thoroughly revelling in his victory when he felt a sharp, biting pain erupt from his shoulder. He dropped Chris’ hand and grasped the shaft of the crossbow bolt jutting out from him.

“That’s really how you welcome a new member to your family?” Peter gritted out between his teeth.

Chris struggled with how to initially react. If it had been his wife, he would have caught her and helped stem the blood. But, he couldn’t see himself ever doing that for Peter. He settled on addressing Allison, “Put the crossbow away. You may not like this. It’s certainly not how I intended to tell you, but this is the way it is. I don’t expect you to like it or understand it. However, I am happy. At the very least, I would hope that you can support that.”

Allison looked down, blush rising on her cheeks. She couldn’t bring herself to apologize for shooting her stepfather. But, she nodded and sat back down, leaning in to Lydia. Lydia wrapped her arm around Allison’s shoulders. She fully supported shooting Peter where he wouldn’t heal.

Chris turned back to Peter and sighed. “It’s like you want to get shot.”

Peter grimaced as he wrenched the bolt from his shoulder, blood bubbling out from the wound. “I only like being impaled by you, dear.”

Throwing his hands in the air, Chris stepped away from Peter. “Just, stand there and heal. I’ll get the photo album.”

The silence stretched on as Chris left the room and picked up the small photo album from the den. He counted to ten, held his breath, then counted again. For someone whose life depended on pretending to be happily married, Peter was making it harder than it needed to be. He gritted his teeth. He had never failed a hunt, yet. He was determined to not let this be his first. Walking back out to the living room, he found every one still sitting and Peter missing.

Gently, Chris placed the album in Allison’s hands. “That’s from the wedding.”

“It’s rather small, but at least it was complimentary,” Peter snarked as he re-entered the living room, drying his hands on a dish towel.

Chris raised an eyebrow, quietly signalling his question.

“I felt it would be better if I didn’t get blood all over our wedding pictures. You only get to take them once, you know.”

The two watched Allison, Lydia and Isaac examine the edited photos. It was Isaac who cracked first. “You seriously got married in the Tunnel of Love?” He stared at Peter, lips quivering.

“Don’t you dare, Isaac! You do not get to laugh at our wedding!”

Isaac pressed a hand against his mouth, trying desperately to stifle the giggles. He lost his battle when Allison flipped the page. Full blown laughter erupted from him. Through his chuckles, Isaac managed to ask, “You let yourself be photographed in front of cupids in golden diapers? Oh my God!”

Chris smiled, Peter’s look of horror was everything he could have hoped for. The rest of the Pack started to move, clambering over each other to get a glimpse of these photos. It seemed that no one questioned their authenticity. He would have to pay his contact a bonus for the comments.

Scott poked at one of the pictures. “Who’s the cowboy hat belong to?”  
  
Leaning over Isaac’s shoulder precariously, Stiles asked, “Seriously? They actually got you to hold the bouquet? It’s pink! Like really pink. Are those real flowers?”

Melissa smiled and gently stroked the edge of one of the pages. “I think it looks sweet.”

Isaac was still chuckling. Lydia looked disgusted.

“Well, it’s better than the photos from my wedding. We eloped, got one picture out of the whole ordeal and it was overexposed.” The Sheriff looked misty eyed, caught somewhere between the past and present.

Malia scrunched her brows together and frowned. “I don’t get it. Are they mated now?”

Derek and Peter choked at the same time.

Scott looked between the two and Malia. “Wait, is that a thing?”

Peter growled and glared at Chris. “You! This is all your fault.” He turned back to his daughter. “Mates are a a once in a lifetime accident. Most people never meet theirs. And mine is dead. That doesn’t mean that I can’t be happy or get married again.”

The humor drained out of the room. Allison delicately closed the album, stood and handed it back to Peter. “If you make my father happy, that’s all I can ask for.”

Chris hugged Allison tightly, squeezing her against his chest. It may be a fake marriage, but he was so proud of her ability to care for others. Letting her go, he addressed the Pack again, “We really need to go over the problem, though. I’m glad everyone has accepted that we are married, but that’s only the beginning of the situation.”

“I knew it was too good to last,” the Sheriff groaned and flopped back into his original seat.

Chris nudged Peter’s shoulder.

“I guess it’s my turn. The creature that’s been spotted in the woods is called Bronach. She’s normally found in Ireland, but has somehow gotten displaced and is now here. She’s not traditionally violent. However, she is a bit obsessive and makes stalking an extreme sport. She’s been after the guy she fell in love with for several centuries. And she mistook me for him. She said that she’ll leave us alone if she truly believes that we are married. But, we aren’t sure how long that will take. After all, she jumped off a cliff chasing this Peadar person. Deaton says that she’s likely anchored to a rock taken from the cliff in Ireland. If we find the stone and ship it back to where it belongs, she should go with it.”

Stiles pursed his lips together. “So, we have to find a specific rock in the middle of the woods. How does Deaton expect us to do that?” He spun and pointed at Scott. “Your emissary is the most unhelpful helpful person I have ever met. You should put him on suspension for vague bullshit.”

Lydia sighed. “It’s completely pointless to look for a rock in the woods without having some idea where to start. We should be looking for who has traveled to Ireland recently. It can’t be that many people.”

The Sheriff nodded and stood up. “I think that’s my cue.  I’ll make some inquiries.”

With that, the Pack slowly filtered out. Isaac and Lydia gave Allison lingering glances, but she shooed them both out with assurances that she would be fine.

“You don’t have to stay if it makes you uncomfortable.”

“It’s fine, Dad.” Taking a deep breath, she gave Peter a hard look. “If you ever, _ever_ , hurt my father, there won’t be enough pieces of you left for you to resurrect yourself. Good night. See you in the morning.” She pecked her father on the cheek and strode to her room, firmly closing the door behind her.

“You’d better sleep in my room, tonight. We don’t need to ruin the image now.”

Peter rolled his eyes, but followed Chris down the hall.

* * *

Chris woke up to Peter mumbling in his sleep. Blearily, he looked over the edge of his bed and glimpsed the werewolf laying tangled in the comforter on the floor. His forehead was covered in sweat, legs and arms twitching. The comforter was snugly wrapped around his body, pinning his arms to his sides. The more he twisted and writhed, the tighter the blanket wrapped itself around him.

“No! No!”

Chris sat up further, curious about what could get so deeply under Peter’s skin that he had nightmares about it. He seriously doubted that Peter was dreaming about something he felt guilty about. So, that shortened the list considerably. Grimacing, he realized that it was probably the fire. Just as he was about to shake the wolf awake, Peter mumbled again.

“Stop. I’ll do anything. She’s mine.”

Scrunching his brow, he pulled his own covers off, desperate for more information. This clearly wasn’t the fire.

“Our Pack. Mine. My baby.”

Chris ran a hand over his mouth, fingernails digging into his whiskers.

“No, Talia! Please!” Claws raked through the comforter, shredding the fabric, stuffing pouring out of the tears. Peter woke up with blue eyes and fangs out. His eyes darted around the room, finally landing on Chris. He pulled his fangs in and glared at the man sitting in bed.

Chris gazed back at Peter, contemplating everything he overheard. He didn’t feel the slightest bit of guilt for not waking him. But, he could empathize with the betrayal of family stealing loved ones. Gerard was infamous for twisting his way into peoples’ heads and getting them to eliminate themselves in a bid to increase his iron control over his more malleable pawns. The silence stretched out, tension increasing the longer the nightmare remained unaddressed.

Exasperated with everything about Peter, Chris stood up, stepped over him and crossed to his closet. He pulled a spare comforter from the shelf and tossed it at Peter. He was too tired to put more thought into the implications of the incident and would deal with Peter’s many psychological issues later, or never, if he could get away with it. Climbing back into bed, he diligently ignored the rustling of Peter settling back down in the new comforter.

* * *

Peter and Chris were woken by Chris’ cell phone going off.

“What time is it? It can’t be healthy to be awake at whatever hour this is.”

“Shut up, Peter. It’s the Sheriff.”

“Did he even go to sleep? He must have coffee instead of blood running through his veins.”

Chris sat up and answered the phone. “Sheriff, any news?”

Peter strained to listen to the other side of the conversation.

“Yeah, a couple kids that go to the local community college took a vacation to Ireland over the summer. I’m going to send you their addresses. Looks like they were there for two weeks. There was also a family that recently went there, two parents and 3 kids. They went back in May. Not sure if they really fit your timeline, but it could be relevant.”

“Thanks, Sheriff. I’ll handle the family myself. No need to expose them to Peter’s personality this early in the morning.”

A chuckle rumbled over the phone. “You were the one that signed up for it.”

Grimacing, Chris replied, “That I did. We’ll discuss who should talk to the students after breakfast.”

“Sounds good, Chris. I’m going to head home before Stiles has a conniption over me pulling an all nighter again.”

The click over the line signaled the end to the conversation.

Peter looked up at Chris, smirk plain on his face. “So, do we do breakfast in bed? I’m feeling up for some blueberry pancakes myself.”

Chris scoffed and started to walk out of the room.

“You know, you may want to put some pants on before you scar your daughter for life. She may get the wrong impression of what we did last night.”

Chris rubbed a hand over his eyes. He reminded himself that they were doing this to save Peter’s life. Killing him would negate all of their work and potentially lead to his own death by the furious spurned lover living in the creek. Walking back towards the closet, Chris pulled out a pair of sweatpants and slid them on.

“We don’t have pancake mix. You can have eggs or cereal. Your choice. I’m making coffee.”

Peter waited another 15 minutes before making himself presentable and entering the kitchen. Allison and Chris sat across from each other. Allison flipped through the morning paper, sipping on orange juice while Chris typed away on his laptop, cradling a cup of coffee.

Seeing the milk and cereal already set out, Peter grabbed a bowl and made himself comfortable on the seat next to Chris. “Did the Sheriff send the information on our potential suspects?”

Chris grunted and swiveled the laptop so that Peter and he could look at the screen at the same time.

Peter tapped his fingers against the table, processing the limited information available. “Well, you already said that you were going to talk to the family. I suppose I should talk to these two. They shouldn’t be too hard to find. And they are clearly friends. Should be easy enough to talk to both of them at once.”

“No. I was thinking of asking Lydia to speak to them. They are more likely to brag to her about their exploits. There is less of a chance of them being permanently damaged at the end of the interrogation.”

Leaning back, Peter let his gaze linger on Chris’ chiseled face. “So, what am I supposed to do?”

“Comb through your family’s records for anything that might give us some insight on spiritual anchors. We need to have a contingency plan if we can’t locate the stone itself.”

“Fine. I’ll be at my apartment if you need me. Please call if anything useful is found. I doubt that I’m going to have much information to share tonight.” Peter made a show of stretching, deliberately letting his body graze Chris’ shoulder. Not one to give up a chance to rile someone up, Peter dropped a quick kiss onto Chris’ cheek and made for the exit.

Through the door he could hear Allison’s protest, “Really, Dad?”

By the time 5 o’clock rolled around, Peter had nothing to show for his research beyond what Deaton had already alluded to. Remove the anchor and the spirit will go with it. Packing up his books and laptop, he drove back to the Argent’s place.

Most of the Pack was there again, excluding Melissa who had a shift at the hospital and the Sheriff who was trying to calm down people who had been hiking in the woods and seen a glimpse of a ghostly woman that they insisted had called out to them.

Taking a seat in the empty recliner, he stared expectantly at Chris to start the meeting. But, Chris merely sat down in the chair next to his and glanced at Lydia.

Lydia spoke from her position on the couch next to Allison. “The two students I talked to - thank you for that, by the way -” she spat at Chris, “brought a piece of rock back from Ireland with them. Through their drunken self-congratulatory attitudes I managed to get a general idea as to what they did with it.”

Deftly, she flipped open a map of the forest. “Apparently, one of them had it with him while they were camping.” Briefly looking up, she added, “I don’t know why they bothered to call it camping, it was obvious they were just sitting in the dirt getting drunk and high. They were close to the stream and the proximity to water must have triggered Bronach. They panicked when they saw her and threw the stone at her before running for their lives. They weren’t entirely certain where they were, but from their descriptions, I was able to narrow it down to this area.”

Lydia circled a small section upstream with a purple pen. “Now, taking into account when they threw the stone into the stream and calculating for current, drag and underwater topography, I estimate that the stone has found its way to this region by now.” She followed up by circling a significantly larger, oval section in red.

Everyone was silent as they looked over the map. The area they had to look through was still large, but at least they had a starting place.

The impressed air in the room was shattered by Peter’s snide voice, “You couldn’t have gotten it more exact?”

Lydia slammed the red pen down on the table, small ink splatters dashing along the map. “You think you can do the calculations any better?” Bending over to reach into her bag, she pulled out stacks of loose-leaf paper, spiral notebooks and several topographical maps. “Here. You calculate it in 3 hours. We’ll watch.”

Peter raised both hands in the air. “I’m good.”

* * *

Peter struggled to remain asleep. A high-pitched whimpering pierced through his dream and begged for attention. Determined to enjoy his rarely peaceful thoughts, he determinedly ignored the sound.  But his subconscious responded to it, allowing it to grow louder and pervade his dreamscape until he blinked his eyes and he found himself on the floor of Chris’ bedroom once again. Annoyed, Peter glanced around, searching for the source of the noise that interrupted his sleep.

Chris was twitching on the bed, his brow beaded with sweat. The sound was coming from the back of his throat, a high keening noise that radiated despair. Peter tried to roll over and ignore it, pulling his comforter over his head and covering his ears. But still, the sound bled through and resonated deep in the wolven part of himself. It echoed in his heart and made him remember the pain of losing his own pack.

Biting his lips, he fought his urge to wake Chris. Just as Peter lost his internal battle, Chris sat up, panting as if he had just run a marathon. Trying to portray nonchalance, Peter rolled over and gazed up at the hunter. “Bad dream?”

Chris grunted. His normally piercing blue eyes seemed dim, the spark that dominated them so thoroughly missing in the aftermath of the nightmare. He pulled his covers back up to his shoulders and laid down, back towards Peter.

Peter rolled back over and started to drift off to sleep when the distinct scent of salt water struck his nose. He was not compassionate. That particular trait had been burned out of him years before. But, the hollow feeling in his chest refused to budge and left him wide awake, staring into the darkness. Growling at himself, Peter flung his covers off and stood next to the bed.

“Move over.”

A scratchy voice answered, “What?”

“Move over. You aren’t going to go back to sleep like this and my wolf won’t give it a rest until you settle down. Move over.”

Chris hesitated for a long moment before finally shifting away from the edge of the bed and towards the center.

Peter slid between the covers and pressed himself along Chris’ back, strong arms tentatively encircling the man.

“What are you doing?”

“It shouldn’t be that hard to figure out, Christopher.”

“Why?”

“I know you aren’t usually this dim. And if you ask me about it I’m going to move out to the living room for the night and tell your daughter that we had an argument.”

Chris lay frozen, arguing with himself. As the minutes ticked by, his muscles relaxed. The warmth of the body behind him soothed a part of his soul that had been hurting since his wife killed herself. Slowly, he felt himself drift back to sleep.

* * *

“Three days of trudging through the woods for a damned rock. I know you can hear me Christopher! My feet are freezing. Water has gone down my boots and is sloshing around making this entirely unbearable.”

Silence was the only thing that greeted Peter.

“Of course, don’t answer me.” Peter sloshed through the water, kicking over stones looking for a darker, porous rock in the midst of the light river rocks and pebbles.

Chris and Peter had worked out a rhythm of searching for the rock in the section they had been assigned. It would have gone faster if the idiots who threw the rock into the creek had been sober. Chris stood at one end of their zone and worked toward Peter. Peter stood at the other end and worked upstream towards Chris. They would meet in the middle and radio back. So far, all searches had been fruitless.

The stream curved around several large trees. Where the water eroded the soil beneath the roots, an overhang loomed above the stream, held together only by the strength of the tree. “Oh joy, a scour,” he muttered to himself. Raising his voice and shouting upstream, “You are getting me new clothes after this!”

Bending down, he let his eyes flare. There were some small fish taking refuge, but no snakes. Dirt from the ledge swirled and made the water darker and muddy, obscuring his view. He let his hands drift along the streambed, hoping to feel a different texture. Muck and slime oozed between his fingers. Peter cursed as he felt his fingernails catch on mildew loosely clinging to the surface of the stones. Pulling back, he tried to stand up, but only succeeded in bumping his head against the muddy ledge, dislodging dirt and leaves down his shirt.

“God dammit!”

Peter backed out too quickly, his heel catching on a branch, sending him sprawling into the stream. He pulled himself up into a sitting position, dripping water, muck and leaves. “I hate this so much.”

Slowly, he leaned forward and braced himself on the streambed to lever himself up. His hand jerked back as his palm pressed into something sharp. “Son of a bitch! After this I am taking a long, hot bath with soap and bubbles. Lots of bubbles.” Reaching back down for the offending rock, Peter grasped it and brought it out from the crevice between the boulders it was lodged in.

The water dripped off the rock. Small rivulets streamed from  pocks and holes in its dark surface. Peter stared at it. A wave of relief swept through his body. Just as he turned to yell for Chris, the water around his feet began swirling. The stream writhed and bubbled. Peter watched, horrified, as a putrid mess of decayed flesh rose from the stream.

“Peadar! You have returned to me. I knew you would come back.”

“Look lady, I am _not_ your Peadar. I’m trying to send you back to Ireland where he is.”

“Do not deny me any longer. I do not spy that usurper with you this time. It is clear that you must have been under duress. I will forgive you.” Gray hands closed around his forearm.

Peter jerked back, but Bronach clung to him. “Let go!”

“You cannot refuse this time. You are clutching my symbol. You even spilled your blood over it. You will come with me to the depths and we will spend eternity together like we should have when I followed you over the cliff.”

Peter unsheathed his claws and let his transformation overtake his body. “I am not your Peadar. I am a werewolf. Get it through your head!”

Bronach dug her jagged fingernails deeper into his forearm. Pulling him closer to her cloudy eyes, she examined his face. “What did that man do to you? Did he think that such witchcraft would make me forsake you? We will find a cure to his devilry. Have no fear, I still love you even through his trickery.”

“Let go! It’s not witchcraft. I was born this way.” Peter attempted to swipe at her face with his free hand. But, Bronach was unnaturally fast and caught his swing. She pressed herself closer, bathing Peter in her musty breath.

Peter was done with dignity and pride. “Chris! Chris, get your ass down here and kill this bitch!”

“He will not come for you. You will see. He does not love you like I do.”

“Oh my God, stop breathing on me.”

Peter’s ears perked up when he heard the telltale sound of wind whistling and the dull thunk of a crossbow bolt lodging itself into flesh.

Bronach released his arms and turned, mouth gaping open as a guttural hiss burst from her mouth.

“Holy fuck!” Peter clambered away from her as quickly as possible.

“Get out of the water!”

“No shit. Where did you think I was heading?” Peter stumbled up the embankment and over several exposed roots. With his feet finally on dry land, he ran upstream to stand safely behind Chris and his crossbow.

Bronach strode towards them, parting the water with no resistance. “He is mine!”

“I am not property! Thank you very much.”

“Now is really not the time to argue semantics,” Chris muttered, stress clipping his words.

Bronach’s cloudy eyes glared directly at Chris. She reached down into the stream and picked up a handful of sediment. With startling precision, she lobbed it at the crossbow. Green tendrils grew out of the muck, wrapping themselves around the arrow and down towards Chris. He quickly dropped his useless weapon and watched as the tendrils tied it to the earth and covered it completely.

Peter backed away. “Deaton didn’t mention that little trick when he was giving us the 411.”

Chris pulled both of his pistols from his shoulder holster. The rounds penetrated with wet squelches but did nothing to stop her advance.

“Anything else in your arsenal?”

“I don’t know if it’s escaped your notice, but I’m a werewolf hunter. Everything in my arsenal is geared to kill you, not a spurned lover who throws mud balls that eat weapons.”

“Well, that leaves one option.”

Chris snarled over his shoulder, his clips clicking empty. “Now would be a good time to share.”

“Run.” Peter turned and ran in the direction of the road.

Chris cursed and ran after him. He slid his guns back into their holsters and followed the sounds of leaves crunching through the dark woods. A couple minutes into their escape, Chris noticed that he could see Peter’s silhouette. The werewolf should have easily outpaced him, but for some reason, Peter was holding back and staying just in sight.

Peter broke the treeline first and slid into the passenger’s seat of Chris’ SUV. Leaning over, he pulled the handle and propped the driver’s side door open for Chris. Chris hauled himself into the seat and slammed his door closed, quickly turning the SUV on and pulling out onto the road.

“Any suggestion where we should go?”

Peter held up the dark stone, still bloody from where he had cut his palm. “Deaton’s. At the very least we should be safe behind the mountain ash barrier.”

“That’s assuming he’ll let you behind the counter.”

“I’d also like to ask him a few clarifying questions.”

Chris glanced over at Peter. “As long as it’s only asking.”

“I’m not stupid enough to try to kill him. But I wouldn’t mind torturing him to get a straight answer for once.”

Chris hummed in agreement.

“For the record, I would take being married to you over that nut case any day of the week and twice on Sundays. If just for the aesthetics of it all.”

They pulled up to the Clinic and ignored the Closed Sign. Pulling lockpicking tools from an inner pocket, Chris deftly wrangled the lock and let them in.

“Deaton should be here soon.”

“Well, that’s to be expected when the alarm company wakes someone up at one in the morning.” Peter lounged back into one of the lobby chairs.

“I’d feel better about this if we waited behind the mystical wall of ash that keeps out supernatural problems.”

“Well go right ahead. I believe Deaton made it perfectly clear which side of the barrier he prefers me to stay on.”

Chris rolled his eyes, leaned over and wrapped his hand in the fabric of Peter’s shirt. He opened the swinging door and dragged Peter through with him. “Stop being so melodramatic. If you hadn’t threatened Deaton and Scott _multiple times_ , he might have a different reaction to you showing up on his doorstep.”

Peter set the stone down on the counter and straightened his V-neck. He tried to ignore the slightly open drawers beneath the counter. Glancing quickly at Chris to make sure he was watching the door and not him, Peter gently tugged on the handle of the topmost drawer. Casually peaking down, he spied several tombs and rolls of parchment in varying states of yellowing. He started to inch his fingers towards one of the pieces of paper to flip it over for better viewing when a cough interrupted him.

“I do hope you gentlemen have a good reason for waking me up in the middle of the night.”

Peter picked up the stone and waved it back and forth several times. “Had a run in with Bronach when I picked this up. Would have been nice if you would have mentioned some of her more interesting abilities.”

Deaton crossed his arms over his chest, “Oh? What abilities?”

Chris rubbed his face, too tired to deal with Peter’s snark or Deaton’s evasiveness. “Slinging mud that can entomb weapons for a start. Or maybe that touching the stone might potentially call her to it. She is also strong enough to physically restrain a werewolf. Any of this would have been helpful to know.”

Deaton stared at Chris and raised an eyebrow.

“I don’t know if it’s escaped your notice, but I am neither a child nor a werewolf. I hold absolutely no allegiance to you. I don’t play your game of balance. If you ever hold back information again, I will let Peter do whatever he wants to with you.”

Deaton looked between Chris and Peter. “It seems the two of you have come to some variety of understanding since this whole thing started.”

Peter sneered. “Don’t try to pass this off as some sort of bonding experiment you designed. That’s bullshit.  Chris, I am completely done with his evasion tactics. Open the door. I’ll take the risk of Bronach showing up here.”

Chris nodded and set his hand on the top of the swinging gate.

Raising both hands in an attempt at a placating gesture, Deaton spoke, “I had no idea that she had further abilities than what we had already discussed. It is a possibility that whatever curse or magic she used to linger has had some unexpected side effects. Or she could have learned those tricks from any variety of magical being living along the coasts of Ireland. About her appearing when you touched the rock that anchored her here, it was a thought that crossed my mind, but the odds were slim that it would be you that found it and that you would cut your hand over it and trigger any latent magic inherent to the stone.”

Peter gritted his teeth. “It would have been nice to know before I put myself in a position to trigger it.”

Deaton shrugged. “At least you know that it is definitely what’s anchoring her here.”

Peter surged towards the gate, but Chris gripped his forearm and held the door tightly closed. “No. We need to know how to get rid of her first. Then you can come back and hash it out with him.”

The hunter and werewolf turned back towards Deaton.

“There should be a red velvet pouch with gold thread embroidery on it in the bottom left drawer. If you store the stone in that, it should prevent her from locating it and thus you. Keep it in the bag until you return it to the cliffs in Ireland.”

Chris took a deep breath. “Is there anything else we need to do to get rid of her and prevent her from returning? Or any potential side effects? Anything at all that might be worth the slightest of mention before we go halfway around the world and get trapped by some mystical cousin of hers in Ireland.”

Deaton shook his head. “Just drop the stone over the cliffs. I would make sure not to touch it again after you’ve put it in the bag. It will key in to your location and could allow her to manifest.”

Still glaring at Deaton, Peter spat, “So good of you to remember that detail. Wouldn’t want the evil werewolf stranded in Ireland, would we?"

“Peter,” Chris sighed. “Get the bag and let’s get out of here. We have a trip to plan.”

Chris kept himself positioned between Peter and Deaton as they exited the Clinic. He really didn’t want to add burying a body to his to do list for the evening. The two climbed into Chris’ SUV and headed back to his apartment.

As they pulled into the parking lot, Chris spoke quietly, “You should probably stay here at least until we get back from Ireland, just in case.”

Peter’s gaze lingered on Chris’ face, struggling to find any motive for the suggestion. “Just in case.”

* * *

It took another week to arrange the trip. They kept the Pack in the dark about everything except the impending end of the Bronach situation. Neither was sure how to tell the rest that the marriage had been fake.

Allison wasn’t exactly accepting, but the effort she put in to support her father made Chris hesitant to tell the truth.  Some deeply scarred part of Peter felt awe at the ability of one so young to look past the wrongs committed and act out of sheer love for her family. It was something he had missed even when his own had been alive. Instead of permanently vanishing to Lydia’s or the McCall’s houses, she came home every night and helped them cook breakfast in the mornings. Conversation was stilted as the three searched for subjects that wouldn’t spawn an argument, but the fact that the effort was made was mind-boggling to Peter.

Allison and Derek saw them off at the airport. They had packed enough for several days. Hoping it would take only one to complete their task, but not willing to truly believe their luck would hold out. Peter had purchased first class tickets, but they were out of luck when it came to the rental car.

“I still don’t understand why there are no decent cars available.”

“Peter, it’s Ireland and gas is extremely expensive. It’s only a couple of days and you’ll be home and with your precious Jag again.”

“The trunk will barely fit my bag, let alone yours.”

“It’s why I packed light. The duffel can fit in the back seat. I told you this would happen. You really didn’t need to bring 8 different v-necks for three days.”

“Every time we go out to defeat the new trouble, I end up with a destroyed shirt and several pairs of pants that are beyond mending. I am not going to be stuck buying something off the rack because I failed to plan for the worst.”

“You are going to make this drive unbearable, aren’t you?”

Peter paused. “No. I’d like to get there and get rid of the obsessive, delusional, water-bound stalker.”

The drive itself was spent in quiet, only interrupted by the occasional complaint about sheep not respecting roadways. The trip itself took just over three hours to get from Dublin International Airport to the Cliffs of Moher. Couples and families wandered from the visitor’s center to the cliffs and took pictures of each other. The wind was bitingly cold and people bundled up and huddled together, but still grinned happily when the cameras clicked.

Peter followed Chris to the edge of the cliffs. They made sure to stand far enough from the rest of the crowd to not elicit any response for throwing the stone back into the icy waters. Once he was satisfied that no one was paying attention, Peter pulled the velvet bag from his peacoat pocket. Carefully, he opened the golden string and walked to the precipice. Gripping the bottom tightly, he tipped it over the edge and let the dark stone fall to the bottom of the cliffs where it was swallowed by the sea. Peter quickly stepped back and away from the edge, not sure if Bronach would resurface just out of spite.

The two men stood at the edge for several minutes, but all they could hear was the mesmerizing sounds of waves crashing against the cliffs below them.

“Well, looks like Deaton was right about something  not biting us in the ass this time,” Peter quipped.

“Should we knock on wood?”

Peter smirked. “Getting superstitious?”

Chris chuffed in amusement.

The moment stretched on as they gazed out over the ocean, standing side by side.

“When we get back, I’ll pack my stuff up and take it back to my apartment,” Peter mumbled, barely audible over the crashing of the waves.

Chris frowned. The thought of Peter leaving him made him feel unbearably hollow. It was a something he had grown accustomed to after his wife had died, but had vanished some time during their forced cohabitation. The nightmares had been held at bay and he had finally been able to truly sleep. It wasn’t something he was prepared to give up. “You don’t have to.”

Peter exhaled, not daring to ruin the moment. “Thank you.”

Chris wrapped one arm around the smaller man and pulled him into his side. “Let’s go home.”

* * *

_One Year Later …_

Chris’ palms were sweating. After three months of listening to Peter have conniptions over every last flower arrangement, Chris couldn’t take it anymore. He had picked up the bridal magazines, chucked them in the closest metal trashcan and lit them on fire. He informed Peter that he would do the planning from top to bottom and that if he heard another word about it, the wedding was off, indefinitely.

Now, it all came down to the next four days and three nights. The Bellagio had a limo waiting for them at the airport to pick the Pack up and head over to the Casino. It had taken a little extra finagling to get the driver to not take them straight to the Bellagio, but he had managed it. In reality, it was immeasurably easier to arrange the brief detour than convince Peter to skip the salon at home, insisting that he had it all taken care of once they landed at their destination.

The chauffeur was holding an elegantly printed sign that read “Argent-Hale Wedding”.  

Chris smiled at the man and gave a two-fingered wave. With practiced ease, the chauffeur took Peter’s bags from him and stacked them on a trolley, then proceeded to do the same with the rest of the Pack’s bags. The flight from San Francisco to Las Vegas had only taken an hour and a half. But, Chris had managed to imbibe his fair share of alcohol in first class. Peter kept a running commentary during the entire flight, mostly focused on how wolves were not designed to fly.

The limo itself was over the top, a stretched SUV with champagne in the sideboards and multi-colored LEDs along the ceiling. As the limo slowed down, Chris quirked an eyebrow at Allison.

Gleefully, she pulled her phone out of her purse and waited.

When they came to a stop, Chris opened the door, ensuring that Peter’s view was completely obstructed by his body.

“We’re already here?” Peter asked, disapproval leaking into his tone.

Chris held out a hand, “Come on. Do I have to help you down, too?”

Grunting, Peter slid out of the limo and gazed, horrified at the sign. “The Little White Wedding Chapel!” Peter spluttered for a moment, before slapping Chris’ shoulder. “I knew I should have planned this from the beginning. You take me all the way to Vegas to get married at a drive-thru! You have no taste. I should have known from the first night sleeping on that stupid couch from Sears!”

Peter’s rant was cut off at the blinding flash from Allison’s phone.

Laughing, Allison managed to capture several more photos, without the flash, of Peter’s gobsmacked expression.

Peter pointed a finger in Chris’ face. “You are evil. I can’t believe you would set me up for this. I swear, I will never -”

Chris pressed a deep kiss onto Peter’s still protesting lips.

“Don’t think I’ll forgive you that quickly.”

“Come on, let’s go to the actual venue. Don’t want to miss our rehearsal or our dinner at PRIME.”

The group was swept into the Bellagio and taken to the VIP reservations desk. Chris and Peter lost sight of the rest of the Pack as they got off on their floor and went to their rooms. Peter’s eyebrow quirked as the elevator continued to ascend. The concierge eventually escorted them to their room with a cultured, “Gentlemen.”

Peter entered the penthouse suite, silently in awe of the opulence.

“If I can do anything more for you gentlemen, please call the VIP desk. Your itinerary is located on the dining room table.”

Chris quietly tipped the man before going back to watching Peter’s reactions as the suite expanded and became more impressive with every room. He leaned against the doorframe of the bedroom as Peter explored the two bathrooms attached, one with a jacuzzi and the other with a glass and marble shower. Peter delicately drifted his hands over the bedding on the King sized bed.

“How soundproof do you think these walls are? Because you are getting your brains fucked out on this bed.”

Chris strode over to his soon-to-be-husband and pulled him into his chest, looking straight down into blue eyes. “I’m sure they’ve done a more than adequate job of soundproofing. But, it’s the newlywed suite. I doubt anyone would have the balls to interrupt us on our honeymoon.”

Peter stretched upwards and rewarded his fiance with a kiss. “So, what is this itinerary I heard about?”

Hand in hand, the two went back to the kitchenette and opened the folder placed on the table. Inside was a $1000 voucher to the salon and spa, two tickets to Cirque du Soleil, and two vouchers to PRIME.

Peter glanced up at Chris, “Well, I can see why you didn’t want me wasting my time at a salon in Beacon Hills. You know this means that you aren’t getting out of being properly groomed, too?”

“We have two hours with a professional photographer. This wedding album will be done without the use of Photoshop. We can set it right next to the first one.”

“When we have this album in hand, we are burning the first one.”

“I think it will look perfect with framed photos of your face when you got out in front of the Little White Wedding Chapel.”

“I take it back. You aren’t getting fucked tonight at all.”

The day of the wedding dawned bright and clear. Chris would have been lying if he said he wasn’t more nervous this time around. He loved Victoria, but it was a sanctioned wedding, two of the largest hunting families intermarrying. Marrying Peter was likely going to be the last thing he ever officially did as an Argent. The family would never condone it. Chris was tired of doing what was expected of him. All that had led to was the decimation of his family. The wedding package at the Bellagio was only for up to 30 people, but it included a live internet stream so that all those not invited could attend. As a final fuck you to his family, he sent each of them an embossed invitation with only the web address, date and time.

Moments seemed to fly by while others stretched on interminably. Chris wished that the photographer had been handy at the salon while they were getting manicures and Peter lectured the nail technician in his preferences. They were both shaved down to only a light stubble, neither wanting to look too young. Peter claimed that the trimmed up beard made him look rakish. He also alluded to some particularly deviant acts he would like to partake in which had the barber blushing to the roots of his hair and dropping the clippers twice.

The Pack congregated outside the East Chapel of the Bellagio. Allison and Derek stood outside, ready to walk down the aisle and stand next to their father and uncle, respectively. The runner down the aisle was done in white scrolling taffeta. Each of the pews was decorated with champagne and red roses, ending at the altar where the officiant stood.

Peter nervously straightened his boutonniere, the red rose standing out on the lapel of his white suit. He thought wearing white was rather ironic for his status as ex-villain and still morally ambiguous werewolf, but he refused to be anything less than perfect for his photos. Hearing the music change, he straightened his shoulders and started his walk down the aisle, eyes locked with Chris’, who was waiting for him at the altar.

Peter’s heart pounded in his chest. The officiant’s words seemed garbled over his own heart beat. Chris took his hand and gently slipped a golden band around his ring finger. Gazing up into piercing blue eyes, Peter breathed, “I do.”

**Author's Note:**

> This may be continued in two separate pieces: one from the epilogue as the perspective of the Pack, and one from Allison/Lydia/Isaac's perspective in their poly-ship. I had too much plot.


End file.
